


L'heure verte

by spokenitalics



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: (It's a joke please don't take it seriously), Alcohol, Causal francophobia, Joe POV, M/M, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Set in 1890s Paris, Smut, Threesome - M/M/M, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:22:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25491577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spokenitalics/pseuds/spokenitalics
Summary: "I've noticed the way you look at him," Yusuf whispers to Nicolò as soon as Sébastien is in the kitchen and out of earshot."I've noticed the way he looks at you," Nicolò whispers back."And if you weren't so busy doing that, you'd notice he looks at you the exact same way.""Doesn't matter. It's not happening.""Why not?""Because he's…French."Alternate title: Booker can have a threesome with Joe and Nicky, as a treat…
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova/Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 45
Kudos: 523





	L'heure verte

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to write something deep and heartfelt, but this happened instead. Enjoy! 
> 
> Betas: veronicasummersfelton & blueseasandchestnuts

"I've noticed the way you look at him," Yusuf whispers to Nicolò as soon as Sébastien is in the kitchen and out of earshot. 

"I've noticed the way he looks at you," Nicolò whispers back. 

"And if you weren't so busy doing that, you'd notice he looks at you the exact same way." 

"Doesn't matter. It's not happening." 

"Why not?" 

"Because he's…  _ French. _ " 

"Well, we're in France, good luck finding someone who's not French… or as attractive, for that matter." 

Nicolò gives him a look.

"What? I've done my fair share of looking too."

"You have?" he asks, trying and failing to mask the amusement. 

"I have," Yusuf repeats, leaning forward to kiss Nicolò. It's slow and deep, as if they were trying to scrub the taste of absinthe from each other's mouth.

It's been decades since the last time they came to Paris. That's long enough that they had to find a new safehouse, but it's been worth it so far — the city has never seemed this young or this hopeful or, frankly, this drunk.

"So, what do you say?" Yusuf asks.

"Maybe," Nicolò tells him. 

"Maybe?" 

"Maybe."

There's a clinking of glass. They let go of each other and lean back into their seats. 

"I thought you gentlemen wanted another bottle," Sébastien says, suddenly there. "If you'd rather be alone, you only need to ask." 

"That's definitely not what we want," Yusuf tells him, scooting on the sofa and patting the spot on his left. 

Sébastien considers the matter for a moment before sitting down, setting the bottle and a carafe of iced water on the coffee table. 

"So, uh, any idea when Andromache will be back?" he asks.

"Not earlier than tomorrow morning, I'd imagine," Nicolò, who's sitting on the armchair on his left, answers. "You know how she is."

"She likes to have her fun," Yusuf adds, as he opens the bottle and fills their three glasses. "Can't blame her for that — Pass me the sugar, babe." 

Nicolò goes to do exactly that, but Sébastien beats him to it. There's this moment of hesitation in his eyes when they meet Yusuf's, as if his brain just caught up with that last word. Yusuf winks at him and takes the jar from his hands. 

As he pours the water, dissolving the sugar cubes, the bright green liquid turns milky white, and Sébastien's face a nice shade of red. Nicolò notices too. He's biting his bottom lip, trying very hard not to laugh. It's pretty adorable. 

Once the drinks are done, Yusuf slides one of them toward Sébastien and one toward Nicolò, then takes his own and leans back on the sofa, hooking an arm over the back. 

"What about you, Sébastien?" Nicolò starts as he takes a sip. "Had any fun recently?" 

"Fun?" 

_ "Fun,"  _ he repeats, raising his eyebrows. 

The gears in Sébastien's head start turning.

"Oh," he says, and if the way he's looking very pointedly at the floor is anything to go by, he knows what Nicolò is talking about. A bitter laugh colors his voice as he continues, "I'm afraid not. I'm not sure I remember how, to be perfectly honest."

"That's nonsense," Yusuf chimes in. Then, to Nicolò, "What's that thing they say now? The pedaling thing?" 

"It's like riding a bicycle," Nicolò supplies.

"Yes, a bicycle… there are things you just don't forget." 

"Mind you — you may be a bit rusty, but all you need is probably just a little bit of practice." 

Sébastien almost chokes on the last of his absinthe. "Practice?" 

"Yeah, practice," Yusuf says, leaning towards him. "You know, like this." 

He kisses him — just a peck, small and quick. Sébastien doesn't protest, doesn't pull away. Yusuf kisses him again, bites his bottom lip, puts a hand on the back of his head to guide him into something deeper. Sébastien seems enthralled, ready to follow Yusuf wherever he'll take him— and then he lets out a surprised whimper and pulls away.

Yusuf only has to look down to understand why: Nicolò is kneeling down between Sébastien's legs, a hand brushing against his inner thigh, looking up at him with those big blue eyes of his. 

"May I?" he asks, his voice just as soft and sweet as Yusuf imagines that of a tempting devil to sound like. 

Sébastien glances at Yusuf, perhaps just now realizing exactly what's happening. They've lived together for more than eighty years, now. He must've figured out he and Nicolò do this, once in a while. The question is, does  _ he  _ want to do it? 

A second passes, and then another. 

Finally, he nods.

Nicolò smiles before planting a kiss on Sébastien's knee, and then another just above, and another, and another. 

Sébastien's breath hitches. When Nicolò reaches his crotch, pressing his lips against the bulge there through the fabric of his pants, he makes a noise that could be mistaken for pained, gripping Yusuf's arm hard enough to leave a mark.

Yusuf laughs and kisses him again. This time Sébastien is ready, but he's flustered, and his attention is not all there — it's sloppy and wet, but not bad by any means. 

Nicolò unbuttons Sébastien's pants, and Sébastien lifts his hips to help him pull them down to his ankles. Suddenly, Yusuf is looking at Nicolò resting his chin on Sébastien's bare knee, eyes fixed on Sébastien's already hard cock, waiting for either his permission or his objection. 

"You want this?" Yusuf whispers against Sébastien's lips. 

"God, yes, " he breathes out, sounding seconds away from dying. 

Nicolò doesn't lose any time, taking Sébastien's cock in his mouth all at once. 

A wild moan escapes Sébastien — loud and strong and like something he's been keeping bottled down for decades. He throws his head back and grips Yusuf's arm even harder, while his other hand digs into the armrest.

Yusuf takes his face in both hands and kisses him. It's an open-mouthed mess of a kiss that tastes of wormwood and anise and throat-burning alcohol, and Yusuf wants more — he  _ needs _ more. 

He pulls himself up on his knees, desperately trying to get rid of his own pants. Nicolò takes pity on him, and spares a hand to yank the fabric down until his cock springs free.

Yusuf gasps in relief, but then he catches sight of Nicolò's lips wrapped around Sébastien's cock, and his brain just refuses to put together any more rational thoughts. 

Sébastien seems to be in very much the same state, but he has enough presence of mind to pull Yusuf into another kiss. He's getting better at it. 

_ "Merde,"  _ he whines out as his body contorts in response to whatever Nicolò is doing to him. 

Yusuf gives him a peck on the corner of his lips, and on his jaw, and just below his ear, and there he whispers, "Don't speak French." 

"Why not?" 

"Just don't." 

They kiss again, and Sébastien's hand leaves Yusuf's arm to wrap itself around his cock. The touch is too light, the strokes too slow, but when Yusuf starts grinding into thin air Sébastien gets the hint and tightens the grip. Yusuf kisses him even harder as a burst of pleasure shakes through his bones.

And Sébastien himself is seconds away from falling apart, his whole body twitching, little soft noises dying in the back of his throat. Yusuf pulls away from the kiss, pressing their foreheads together, giving him space to breathe.

"I'm close," he says. "I'm so close."

And then he lets out a deep groan and his whole body arches as he comes in Nicolò's mouth. 

It's a sight to behold: Sébastien with his eyes closed and his lips parted, lost in ecstasy as the orgasm rushes through him; Nicolò bobbing his head up and down as he drinks him in, one hand tightly wrapped around his own cock. 

Yusuf can't take it anymore.

Nicolò notices, and in one swift motion he springs up to his feet and practically tackles Yusuf, pressing their bodies together, shoving his tongue in Yusuf's mouth, making him taste the absinthe and the salt and, underneath it all, Sébastien. 

Yusuf wraps a hand around both his cock and Nicolò's, and Nicolò rocks his hips and the friction makes Yusuf see white — like staring straight into the sun, but worse, but also much better. 

He bites down a curse and gives a long, rough stroke. 

Nicolò is the one who curses, this time. 

He winds an arm around Yusuf and holds him close as he thrusts into his hand. And just as Yusuf thinks there's no way this could get any better, one of Nicolò's fingers is pushing its way inside his ass — just one, but enough to have him bury his face in the crook of Nicolò's neck as he lets out a choked noise. 

And then Sébastien's hand is on the small of his back, and Yusuf is vaguely aware that the other one must be in the same place on Nicolò's body, but that's not really important because now Nicolò and Sébastien are kissing. 

Yusuf watches them learn each other's lips, watches Sébastien's tongue slip into Nicolò's mouth, wonders if he can taste himself as clearly as Yusuf tasted him. 

And it's finally too much. 

Yusuf hears the sound Nicolò makes as he comes, and then he's coming too, and poets have spent millennia trying to describe this feeling, this fleeting illusion of wholeness that envelops them both, but there are no words powerful enough, or sacred enough. 

They ride it out together, breathing each other's air as Sébastien's hands dig into their skin, rocking against each other as they shoot in the space between their stomachs, staining their shirts and their vests and whatever is in the way. 

They stay like that for a moment, suspended in their bliss, and then Yusuf lets himself fall back onto the sofa, dragging Nicolò with him. Sébastien does the same, ending up lying down sideways, with his head against the armrest and his legs spread open, one on each side of that mess of limbs and sweat and semen that are Yusuf and Nicolò. He looks like some kind of statue, like a drunken faun immortalized by the hands of a Greek sculptor. 

He starts laughing — or more like howling — as he throws an arm over his eyes. It's that kind of laugh that starts in your belly and rushes through your whole body. It looks good on him.

"Fuck," he breaths out. "I can't believe that just happened." 

Yusuf laughs too, and Nicolò follows, his lips red and his hair disheveled and his clothes all crumbled — absolutely stunning. 

And then he's standing up, or trying to, balancing himself between discarded pants and broken glass — Oh,  _ that's  _ where Yusuf's absinthe ended up…

"Let's move," he tells them, clapping his hands. "We need to clean up." 

"Not now," Sébastien whines, still breathless. "There's time." 

"Sure there is, but the faster we clean up, the faster we can get onto round two." 

Sébastien gapes at him, at both of them. “Round two?"

"If you want," Yusuf says. "The night is still young."

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come and scream at me about The Old Guard on [Tumblr](http://spokenitalics.tumblr.com)!


End file.
